And now, of Martha Hilton. Portsmouth was her home and the scene of her brilliant matrimonial campaign. This is one of the most picturesque of our New England towns. Aldrich’s “An Old Town by the Sea” should be read by the pilgrim on his way. No one loves the old town more, or knows it better than he. Much remains, here, to tell of Martha Hilton, but a day well suffices to see it all. A short walk from the railway-station is a pleasant, old-fashioned market square. At times it is filled with wagons of hay and loads of wood, while, all about, is a subdued bustle. From this square leads Pleasant Street, well named, and, only a few steps away, it is crossed by State Street, once Queen Street, at the foot of which once stood Stavers’ Inn, the “Earl of Halifax.” It was in the doorway of this inn that Mistress Stavers “fied” Martha Hilton _circa anno Domini_ 1754. No print or picture of this old inn is known to exist. Beyond State Street is Court Street, with interesting old houses, and some of the ancient flagging here and there. On the cross streets is more of this, with sometimes a gutter in the middle of the street. All of this portion of the town is interesting, dirty, primitive, and full of memories. Parallel with Pleasant Street are Washington and Water streets, from which, at right angles, run a dozen lanes, not a whit altered since Martha’s time. Here is where the sailors in pig-tails and petticoats used to gather. At the corner of Water and Gardiner streets, let the visitor notice the great golden linden, overshadowing a house as old and as lovely as the tree itself. The neighborhood is full of old houses, with hip roofs and gables. The Point of Graves, a stone’s throw away, is sadly neglected. Children sometimes play on a large, flat tombstone, and curiosity-seekers skip from one headstone to another, in search of the oldest date. The old stones are sculptured with grim skulls and cross-bones, or with humorous cherubs. One thinks of the days Tom Bailey spent here, when he was a blighted being. Let us hope that it was a more secluded spot then than now. Close by is Manning Place, very short, and at the corner is the square, strong house, built prior to 1670, where Benny Wentworth and his sires were born. A grand place this once was, with its lawn extending to Puddle Dock. Once this was a fair inlet, but now no one will dispute the rightfulness of its name. [Illustration: “This is where the sailors in pigtails and petticoats used to be.”]